How You Love
by Karen Cecil
Summary: Two years after "Chasing Amy," Holden returns and confesses his love for Banky.


"Goddammit."  
  
He erases again.  
  
"Fuck."  
  
One more time, he fucking swears. One more time and the fucking street isn't even going to have a damn old-fashioned stoplight. The wonders of playing God: the street looks one way, or it looks another, anything you want is law.  
  
"Fucking piece of shit."  
  
The exception, of course, being that you have to be able to create it. The pressures of playing God: you alone know ever imperfection in your creations.  
  
"Fine. Fuck. Last time I try to give a page some fucking character."  
  
A knock at the door startles Banky Edwards out of his thoughts.  
  
"Fuck!"  
  
Today is not shaping up to be a good day. He stumbles as he spins off the stool and onto his soundly sleeping right leg.  
  
The persistent visitor knocks again.  
  
"Hold your fucking horses. I'm fucking coming."  
  
He limps to the door, opening it to find an unwelcome piece of personal history, hand upraised to knock again.  
  
Not a good day at all.  
  
"Banky fucking Edwards!"  
  
Banky stares at Holden McNeil, wondering if the streetlight had driven him mad. The delusion continued speaking as if everything between them still passed as normal, as if it hadn't been two years since that normal, as if they were still friends.  
  
"You look good, Banky. You look really good. How the fuck are you?"  
  
"What the fuck are you doing here?" He doesn't sound quite as outraged as he thinks he should at Holden's showing up unexpectedly, but the pins and needles pain in his leg puts an edge in his voice that the other man will surely mistake for blind anger.  
  
"I missed you."  
  
The answer is simple. Honest. It isn't the truth, though, at least not all of it. Nothing with Holden is ever simple.  
  
"Is that so? Well, you've got a fucking fine way of showing it. I see you once in two years and suddenly you appear at my door saying you fucking miss me like it's the morning after some fucking pubescent coitus. Fuck you, Holden."  
  
Oh God, he just likened their situation to amateur sex. Oh God, could he possibly be any more Freudian.  
  
Holden stepped forward, into the apartment, invading Banky's Sanctum Sanctorum with a single with a single swift motion, contaminating his place of safety, destroying his Fortress of Solitude.  
  
Before Banky could begin to protest Holden was holding him, stepping closer to Banky, kissing him.  
  
At first Banky's mind didn't register the fact, then it wouldn't register anything else. There was no fading series of pricks in his leg, there is no perpetually half drawn street on the desk behind him, there was no phone ringing in the background—surely Hooper calling to see if their weekly bitch-session was still on for the night. There were only Holden's hands on his elbows, Holden's warm body close to his own, the spicy smell of Holden's aftershave, the light of Holden's lips against his; there was only Holden.  
  
Then Holden pulled away, and there was nothing.  
  
"What the fuck was that? What the fuck are you doing? What the fuck is wrong with you?"  
  
"I know you felt something, Banky." He sounds so calm.  
  
"Yeah, I felt something. I felt fucking violated."  
  
"Don't be so stubborn, Banky. I know you love me. I know you always have."  
  
"You what?! You fucking presumptuous bastard. Even if I ever did love you—and that is a big fucking 'if'—that doesn't just give you the right to fucking saunter back into my life when you're feeling fucking lonely." Holden tries to speak, but is cut off. "I have seen you once in two fucking years. And this after you left without so much as a fucking goodbye. Guess what, Holden? I've been doing fine." Not the truth, but it sounded good, and it wasn't really, completely untrue. "I don't need you. And I sure as fuck don't appreciate you wandering back in here because you want a fucking queer blowjob or some shit. I don't fucking need you, Holden."  
  
Holden doesn't resist when he steps out of his grip.  
  
"I need you." His voice is quiet, and there's something in it that Banky can't recall having ever heard in twenty years of friendship: vulnerability.  
  
"You what?" Banky is yelling, but doesn't mean it. It's like he can't stop—can't stop yelling, can't stop being angry, can't stop hurting.  
  
"I need you, Banky. You may be fine, but I'm falling apart. I miss you. I miss the banter, the insults, the crude remarks. I fucking miss you callous self-involvement." He paused, but Banky didn't respond. "I don't mind if you're gay, Banky. I don't mind if you love me…"  
  
"I'm not fucking gay, and I sure as fuck don't love you." It sounds convincing. It should, he's said it enough times.  
  
"…because I love you, too."  
  
"You what?"  
  
"I love you."  
  
"Fuck you, Holden."  
  
"Well, I was hoping to start with something simpler. Maybe, 'I love you too, Holden," or even, 'I missed you, Holden,' but I guess if you want to get to it…"  
  
"Don't be glib. I'm pissed at you and will not be bullied into complacency be your half-assed attempts at humor."  
  
"Then let me be straight with you."  
  
"A fucking ironic turn of phrase, if you ask me."  
  
"Banky…"  
  
"Fine, fine. Say whatever the fuck it is you have to say and get out."  
  
"I love you, Banky. Maybe I always did. I don't know, but I do know this: you left and my life because empty. I thought at first that it was because I missed Alyssa—and a part of it was—but I got over her, and I still missed you. Then I started thinking about you, about what Alyssa told me about love transcending gender. To make a long story short…"  
  
"Too fucking late for that."  
  
"I want you. And I love you. I can't say that enough times, Banky, but I keep thinking that maybe if you hear it enough then you'll finally believe it. I've done things I'm not proud of, I've done things that I'm downright ashamed of, but I refuse to let any more of my regrets in life revolve around you."  
  
"I don't fucking know what to say."  
  
"I believe I've already suggested a pair of appropriate responses."  
  
"Get out."  
  
"That isn't actually one of them."  
  
"Get out, Holden."  
  
"I will, but…"  
  
"No. No goodbye, certainly not another fucking melodramatic speech. Just get out. Come back tomorrow if you feel so inclined, but get the fuck out."  
  
"Banky…"  
  
"Get out!" he screams, his voice raw.  
  
Holden nods and leaves quietly, whispering, "I'll be back tomorrow at noon," as he shuts the door.  
  
Banky Edwards stands in silence as the tumblers click into place and, for a moment, he—like the Man Without Fear himself—can hear as Holden's hand sadly slides down the door, as Holden's footsteps drift further and further away, the elevator dings; he can hear the normally inaudible click as Holden depresses the button for the ground floor, and the dull thud Holden's head makes as he rests it against the cool stainless steel of the elevator. With each of these imagined sounds, Banky can feel his heart being tugged violently from his body as if invisibly bound to his old friend in a way more literal than anyone had ever suspected. He wanted to run after Holden, to beg for everything said to have been true, to cling to him in a way that would ensure that he would never feel this painful tug again.  
  
Instead, he screams savagely and slams his fists against the door before sinking to the floor numb and confused. 


End file.
